I’ve had the most wonderful weekend with one of my oldest and dearest friends. I feel well-rested for the first time in a long while.
She will leave in the morning and I will still be here. There is a part of me that wants to pack up and go with her. There is a part of me that wants to be somewhere familiar for a while with people who know me. Who wants to run from this place as fast as I can.
But the thing is, I want to be running home, and I’m not sure I have a home anymore.
I think, perhaps, my home is wherever I happen to be, and I wish this wasn’t the case. I wish there was some place for me to go where I could feel safe, warm and protected. Where I could be cared for and loved. Where I wouldn’t have to worry about anything for a while, wouldn’t have to think too hard about my life. Where I could feel found instead of lost.
Is this what growing up is?
I don’t think there is such a place for me. I think, perhaps, it’s what I’ve been looking for in people, in god, in books, in every town I have ever lived in. I think, perhaps, it may only ever exist in moments. In a conversation with an old friend. In a smile. In a hug. In a walk against the wind blowing and the sun shining down. In those small spaces of time that feel like magic. In a breath. In a kiss. Here and then gone again.
I think, perhaps, it is only ever fleeting.
And, I think I hate that it is.